


Il ya des jeux bien pires à jouer

by thesnicken



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst, Gen, also violence, not even shitting around with the major character death warnin gthis is the hunger games people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:00:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnicken/pseuds/thesnicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis in the Hunger Games.</p><p>I really don't know what else to add.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping-Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the translation of the title I literally just threw the last line or Mockingjay into google translate so it's almost definitely wrong so I'm sorry to any French speakers.  
> I'm also sorry for the crappy first names featured both in this part and the second part of the reapings.

District 1 

Enjolras had been training for this his whole life.

The years training at the academy had seem pointless most of the time, but he had to keep reminding himself of what would come if he pulled it off. He saw the faces around him, young and old, nervous and exited. Although, there was no real need for anyone to be nervous. If you didn't want to play in the games, you needn't worry. Even if your name is picked, someone else will volunteer in your place. Probably. Enjolras would hate to see what it was like in the outline Districts, where hearing your name called meant almost certain death.

He saw the other careers he had trained with since childhood. They were as eager as he, but for very different reasons. Enjolras' plan had been long in the making. He has the looks, the charm, the deadly skill. All the things the Capitol love. He will use them against them. The crowd started thickening now. He saw the mayor, this year’s mentors and the representative from the Capitol take their places. Now for the tedious bit. The talking, the video, the reaping of the girl (she looks, tough, but it's no concern of his) and then finally, they call the males.

He barely hears the name before he calls out and shouts the words he has practised for so long, “I volunteer as the District One Tribute.” He is called on stage, the other boy goes back to his mother. His hand is grabbed and pulled up into the air.

“Introducing this year’s Tributes, Sapphire Gold and Aric Enjolras!”

Fire is catching, Enjolras thought as they clapped. And I'm going to be the one who lights the spark.

 

District Two

Like most in District Two, Bahorel wanted to play the games. Unlike most, he didn't want it for the glory, he wanted it for the kill. That was exactly what he was going to get.

There would be no tactic for him, nor sponsors or alliances. Just blood. He didn't care about winning, or even living. In fact, he had no intension of surviving the Games. So long as he went out with a fight.

He walked on stage after volunteering, they all cheered for him. It was a strange feeling. People were usually afraid to make eye contact with him and now they were chanting his name. They could cheer all they want. He had what he wanted. 23 heads being delivered to him in an arena. All he had to do was decapitate them.

 

District Three 

He had always despised the games. Killing, without sense. Murdering your friends and siblings. Butchering for your life. All for the sake of entertainment.

It wasn't like Combeferre wasn't used to working and living for others gain. Living in Three, he had always worked to make the gadgets the Capitol folk claimed they couldn't live without. What would happen if we all just stopped? He thought, not for the first time. Stopped watching, stopped listening and working, stopped their games?

He shook the thought aside. His place was here. Life may not be perfect but he had food and a roof. He should count himself lucky that he didn't live in Eleven or Twelve.

He hated the reaping. His name was in there seven times this year, as was usual for eighteen year olds. There were some twelve year olds who had the odds worse than he. That saddened him, but if he were at all honest, he would rather it be them than him.

The chosen girl was a young one that Combeferre knew by face and not name. She was about thirteen and looked like she was likely to die of shock. Perhaps it would be better for her to die here, he thought. Rather than in the arena. They calmed her down with words that were either soothing or threatning. He hoped it was the former.

The boy’s big glass orb glared at him the way it always did. She skimmed the bottom, pulling out a folded slip of paper. She unfolded it. She cleared her throat. She read his name.

It took him a full ten seconds to comprehend what was happening. His first thought when he was finally able to think was, I am a dead man. He felt confident that this would be his last thought too.

 

District Four 

Marius had always enjoyed his life. Of course, he had been through dark times like all others. The main one being when his father had accidentally drowned. He still wasn't sure about the “accident” part of that tale.

Marius had grown up to find out his father was a known rebel. Ever since then, people had watched Marius. They expected him to turn out the same way as his father, but any rebellious streak Marius had ever possessed had been ironed out by his grandfather by now, for sure.

He cleaned up before the Reaping, smoothing back his hair and washing his body of the smell of fish that always lingered on his skin as best he could. The streets were near enough empty which suggested he was late once again. Marius was among the last to check in, not that it made much difference, they wouldn't start for at least fifteen minutes anyway.

He watched the morning’s proceedings with a dull curiosity. The girl who was reaped was replaced by a Career Marius had never met. When they called the boy’s name, Marius hadn't really listened and looked around to find the owner of the name only to see everyone looking at him. The name was repeated.

“Marius Pontmercy?” Said a questioning Capitol accent.

He fumbled for a second longer before smiling. This was District Four. In a moment, someone bigger and stronger than he would volunteer. Now, he just had to walk on stage.

He put one foot in front of the other, then repeated. He continued to do so until he was up the steps and next to the girl.

“Any volunteers?” Asked the Capitol representative asked.

There was silence. What was happening? This made no sense. There were almost always volunteers in Four. _Almost_ always.

Marius faced the crowd to find them all blurs. No faces could be seen. He longed for the ocean, for the calming waves, the sand beneath his feet. Instead, he felt only eyes on him.

He was no killer, he couldn't do this. _But you've killed before_ , a voice at the back of his head said. _Only fish_ , he replied. _But we know that's not true_. He shook the voice off. He couldn't think about this now, or ever for that matter.

He was finally lead away through the thick doors and out of sight. He was sure there were still eyes on him. He was sent to a room. His grandfather came to see him. It was clear form his words that he saw this as a goodbye, the old man wasn't one for hope, he knew Marius was as good as dead.He left him alone with the thoughts Marius didn't want to face. Soon after, they came for him again.

The whole time, Marius' smile didn't falter once.

 

District Five 

Joly had always found it ironic that his District's export was power, yet they possessed so little of it.

The games had always intrigued him. Beneath his slight awkwardness and of course, the hypochondria, he had a strange thirst for blood as well as the power he had always been so close to.

He had his name in plenty of times, more than was usual for a boy of fifteen. Joly was pushed amongst the others of his age and couldn't help but bump against them and touch their likely unwashed skin. He held his breath and waited for the calling of the walking dead.

The chosen girl was a pasty, sickly looking thing that Joly didn't wish to get too close to. He watched the Capitol man push his hand to the middle of the ball, he rummaged for just a second before clasping a name.

Joly wasn't sure why he was surprised when his name was called. Part of him had always known he was destined for either the life the hunger games gave you, or the death. The games had always been the only way out of Five for him and the only way to power. 

 

District Six

For Feuilly, the games had always just been another event to fear in coming and forget in passing. It always seemed far away and untouchable until it was on your doorstep. They weren't exactly the reason he had tried to run away, but they were one of the contributing factors. When the Capitol had caught up with him, they had killed his friend instantly and shot another so she slowly bled to death.

Feuilly had been six at the time and instead of killing him, they took him in and interrogated him. It wasn't necessarily out of sympathy for his youth that they let him live, it was more that they thought he knew something and a child would likely be easier to crack than the teens he had travelled with. Unfortunately for them, he was not part of some resistance group. He simply wanted to go some place with his friends where he wouldn't have to go to sleep with an empty stomach every night.

He was shocked at his name being reaped at first, then scared like all the others before him had been, but then he didn't know why he hadn't expected it before.

The Capitol had let him go when he was six but he had never been free, he had always known it would come back to haunt him, it had just taken them nine years.

Feuilly had fought them before and lived. He could do it again, that much was certain to him.

 

 

 

 


	2. The Reaping-Part II

District Seven 

Musichetta was tough beyond her years, everyone said so.

She worked hard like everyone else, splitting logs as well as her back day after day. She could handle and axe well enough to chop off any body part she so desired, but she was more than her physical strength. She had sold herself to anyone who might be willing for about a year now. She was lucky, most girls at fourteen were in the ugly, still trying to get through puberty stage, but she had bloomed early and was highly popular amongst the lumber jacks.

 As usual, the girl was to be reaped first. They all drew the same breath as the slip of paper was selected, unfolded and read.

“Musichetta Adris,” the voice cried.

It had been a long time since she had felt fear and it was almost instantly replaced by loathing.

Year after year, twenty four of Panem's children were forced to play the Capitol's games, but it didn't end there. Not only did the twenty four play over the few weeks of the hunger games, but they all played every day of their lives already, tribute or not.

Musichetta, for the most part, had little problem with playing the game, so long as the game didn't put her behind the rest, which it often did. She would play their games, but not without breaking a rule or two.

 

District Eight

The Capitol loved tragedies.That was why she had always known she would find herself in the arena sooner or later.

Cosette's mother had given birth to her when she was sixteen, just a year later, she was reaped and killed in the Hunger Games. It wasn't an unknown fact that many children of past tributes could often find themselves following in the footsteps of their parents.Working in a textile factory in District Eight had never offered her with many deadly skills above the ability to weld a needle, but she had tried her best to take things into her own hands. She seemed timid to others, they all said she was a nice little girl who wouldn't hurt a fly. Perhaps not a fly, but she was prepared to slay her fellow human beings if it came to it.

In all honesty, Cosette had always feared the day her name would be picked. She trained but never really thought about what she was training for. If she did, it would often result in horrific mental pain and an ocean of tears.

She didn't just prepare for killing, but also for wooing. Her mother’s problem had been her lack of appeal. Perhaps if she had played up the fact that she had a daughter, she would have gotten herself some sympathy sponsors, instead she had died on the first day at the Cornucopia.Cosette prided herself on being smarter than her mother.

If (or rather, when) she died, it would not be on the first day, it would not be without people cheering her name and it would not be without taking others down with her. She didn't worry about being reaped this year, she was only sixteen. Her mother had died at seventeen, they would do the same with her daughter. It was neater, more symmetrical that way.

That was why it was such a blow to her when her real name, Euphrasie Fachevant, was called. There had to be some mistake.

She still had another year for preparation and planning. It was too soon, she still had too much to do. Cosette walked on the stage, slowly. She tucked in her shirt and pulled her hair around to the left side of her face. She smiled weakly as she walked on stage, trying to avoid looking at her adoptive father, the mayor, who seemed ready to pass out.

She would have to make do with what she had, and what she had was a smile that was equal parts winning and deadly.

 

District Nine

Courfeyrac had never quite been content, but then again, who was?

He wanted something more but didn't know what it was. However, his humble life wasn't quite so bad. Yes, he lived in one of the poorer district's and had to work hard planting and harvesting but he had a family he loved, lovers he loved more, and enemies who stopped him from getting too cocky.

He had never really seen the Hunger Games as a way to something else. Not until he was reaped, then the possibilities seemed endless.

Courfeyrac was determined. He was strong and fast and knew how to survive. He would not die in the arena. When he won the games, he could still have all the parts of home he still loved, and also the luxuries he had desired. He would win the hearts of every man and woman in the Capitol and in the whole of Panem.

 

 District Ten

“Hector Bossuet,” she boomed over them all.

He was surprised by his own reaction to being reaped. Bossuet jumped onto the stage without the loom of fear in his eyes and managed to stop himself from looking in the direction of his family, although he could still hear them weep.

He was sure he was dead, with his luck, he didn't stand a chance against the well trained killers from District’s One, Two and Four. But then again, he _had_ killed before. It was his job. Just cattle, but still.

He was skilled with a knife, perhaps if he could get his hands on one, he wouldn't do quite as bad as the sponsors would expect. And perhaps, his bad luck, would be reflected on the other twenty three and not him.

 

District Eleven

Jehan never felt more alive than in the hours before the reaping. Death was one of the world’s greatest mysteries and had always inspired him in a strange, dark and romantic way he never really understood. That was why, during the Hunger Games when he was made to watch twenty three people die every year, he would distract himself by writing an array of poetry and thanking the stars that the odds had been in his favour for another year.

This year however, Jehan felt dead. The words refused to come and what he did create in the morning did not flow. This worried him. He couldn't see it as just a simple case of writers block, but as a sign that the odds were turning against him.

He lined in with the other fifteen year olds and waited. He was one of the few who always paid close attention to the proceedings before the reaping itself. He liked to see what the Capitol representative was wearing, watching the same video again and then finally, seeing the face of the girl who was to be sacrificed. This year, she was plain and without the sort of beauty or ugliness that would inspire him. Then it was the boys turn. This was the one part he didn't want to listen when everyone else did.

The name was selected and the voice cleared before reading, “Jean Prouvaire.”

He sucked his breath in through his teeth as everyone turned to him. He tripped over a foot when he tried to move. At first, he tried to go away from the stage and away from life itself, but he knew there was no escape but death now. For that was what would happen, he would die.

Jean Prouvaire was no murderer. He loved the trees and sky and all pretty things. Blood was not pretty. A sudden wave of words came over him, all he wanted now was to write. Maybe he could even read one of his poems during his interview. Then perhaps, he would be remembered for just a little while.

 

 District Twelve

It really was a shit hole in twelve, Grantaire thought, not for the first time. But at least the booze was cheap and he had Eponine, so it could be worse.

He went to her house about an hour before the reaping, helping her dress her younger siblings while her parents were god knows where. She was stronger than Grantaire had been at sixteen, stronger than he is at eighteen too. But that was Twelve for you, you grew up young. It was just a matter of telling if you would grow up a tough bitch or a raging alcoholic.

They lead the children towards the town square. It was Azelma's first year with her name in and she was understandably scared. She was made of strong stuff like her sister, but still not quite as invincible as Eponine was. Azelma almost cried when she was separated from them and Grantaire could see that it nearly killed Eponine to let go of her sister.

Grantaire and Eponine smiled weakly at each other before parting. He worried about her, like he always did. If it wasn't for Eponine, he would have likely killed himself some time ago. They had been friends since she had been born. Pulling girl’s pigtails when they were younger, drinking and hating the world together as the years went by.

Her name was in twenty seven times today but she didn't seem to be worried for herself. He wished she wasn't so careless for once. He watched, shaking as the man selected a girl’s name from the glass bowl and opened it. “Azelma Thenardier,” he read.

Grantaire heard a scream, he couldn't tell if it came from Azelma or Eponine, followed by a shout he knew was from his friend. “I volunteer.” She yelled. Everyone froze. “Didn't you hear me? I said I volunteer!” She said again. He watched Eponine walk on the stage and he watched Azelma walk back down off it, crying for her sister.

He wasn't aware that a boy’s name had been selected until he heard his name being called.

He was a tribute.

So was Eponine.

Tributes in a game where only one could live.

They would have to kill each other or watch someone else do it for them.

 

The odds were in no one’s favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot i posted this sorry


End file.
